Complacent
by Han'Gerrel
Summary: Grand Enchanter Fiona asks the queen to arrange a meeting between her and King Alistair so she can tell him something very important… and long overdue. Oneshot, complete.


The sound of Alistair's laughter preceded him into the room, causing Grand Enchanter Fiona to look up expectantly towards the door. He had a pleasant laugh, silvery and warm, but she could tell something was off by the way it lingered, dragging on a bit too long, halted and affected. She had been awaiting his arrival for quite some time, but now that he was actually here, the meeting seemed so altogether sudden that she was no longer certain she was prepared for it. It was not as though the meeting was unexpected, nor the condition in which they met – Fiona, herself had asked the queen earlier that day if she might be able to arrange a private meeting between herself and the king under very specific circumstances, so she knew what she was getting into – but she had had such low hopes of him actually arriving to meet her, that to actually have him be there, present, in the flesh, felt like her heart had stopped beating, frozen in her chest, quivering, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for something, anything to go horribly wrong.

The heavy door of the tiny side room started to open, but then paused halfway, hesitating, before starting to close again. Finally, it pushed inward again, this time all the way, to reveal the king and his petite Warden queen standing in the open door frame. Alistair laughed again, languidly, leaning heavily on his wife as he bent in to kiss her on the cheek, but Sofia tapped him gently on the chest, getting his attention, before pointing towards Fiona, who was watching them from across the room, intently. She knew full well that the queen had been hesitant to accept her request, seeming uncomfortable with the circumstances of the meeting, but she had finally agreed on the condition she be allowed to attend as well, if only to make sure the meeting ran smoothly and everything went according to plan. Fiona had been tentative to accept this addendum, but had ultimately decided it would probably be best for all involved if the queen were in attendance as well, just in case something went awry with her plan.

The idea that something might go wrong was not a pleasant one, but she was too worldly to assume everything would go exactly the way she imagined it would. Despite being a mage, or perhaps because of it, Fiona considered herself a realist, and she knew it was unrealistic to not prepare for _something_ to go amiss.

Alistair paused, faltering a bit at the sight of the Grand Enchanter, seeming momentarily surprised that there was anyone else in the room at all. Then, drawing himself up to his full height again, he began to make his way amicably towards her, followed quickly by his wife, who held onto his arm, keeping his path straight, until finally he came to stand before Fiona, leaning heavily on the polished table as he smiled down at her, polite and professional. "Grand Enchanter Fiona," he greeted her, sounding surprised but not entirely adverse. The smell of spiced wine lay thick on his person, his broad, cheerful smile crooked as he regarded her with half-lidded, honey-brown eyes. "This is unexpected," he told her, raising one brow, and then the other to meet it a moment later, delayed. "I was expecting something—someone? No, something—something less… a… person."

"I'm sorry to disappoint," Fiona answered, calmly, folding her slender hands patiently in front of her on the table. "Won't you sit down, your Majesty? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"With me?" Alistair asked, glancing over his shoulder towards his wife, who was hovering patiently behind him, listening to the two of them talk. Turning his attention back towards Fiona, he faltered, wetting his lips, before frowning faintly, concerned. "I'm—I don't recall any business we had, or, that… to do, Grand Enchanter," he admitted, frankly, taking hold of the first chair at the table and starting to pull it out for his wife, causing it to give halting, scraping shrieks as each leg was dragged uncertainly back and forth across the stone flooring a few inches at a time. "Though I… there's a good possibility I just forgot, I can't really—I can't really remember much right now. I'm not… I'm not exactly in a… a state to be doing much business right now as it is, I, uh… I apologize…"

"Alistair," Sofia interrupted him, moving quickly forward and stopping him with a tiny, tender hand on his chest. Alistair faltered, surprised at having been stopped, and the queen offered him a patient, almost apologetically pleading little smile in return. "Sit down, love," she prompted, gently, indicating for him to take the chair he had pulled out for her to sit down in. "I can get my own chair." Alistair hesitated, unsure how to react to this suggestion. Then, shifting uncertainly around the chair he had just pulled out, he lowered himself down into it with a hefty grunt, thankful to be off his unsteady feet, before turning his attention back to his wife. He watched with intent interest as she pulled out the chair beside his, settling herself daintily into it and turning her attention back towards Fiona again, causing him to do the same.

Fiona had not moved since their first interaction, continuing to sit perfectly still, watching them with interest, her hands folded dutifully in front of her on the table. "What was it you wanted to discuss with me, Grand Enchanter?" Alistair asked. "Or, if now is a bad time, or a bad… if… if you want, I can always come back. Later. Sometime when I'm not, when I'm more— less—" He paused, tongue-tied, making a face as he tried to figure out what it was he was trying to say. "When I'm more… less…"

"It's quite all right, your Majesty," Fiona assured him, saving him from his confusion. "I actually prefer it this way. What I have to say, you might not like to hear, or you might not wish to remember. I'm not entirely sure _I_ wish you to remember it, all things considered, but… I have put off telling you for far too long." She hesitated, her brow furrowing faintly as her willowy hands gave an uncertain twitch, betraying the rigid, unaffected composure she had been so meticulously keeping up to that point. "I need to get it off my chest," she told him, intently. "But… I didn't know how to do it without hurting you. I figured… this would be the best way."

"Uh-oh," Alistair answered, humorously, offering her a lighthearted, lopsided grin in response. "That doesn't sound good. That sounds _bad_. That s… that sounds—did…?" Turning to look at his wife, he raised his brows, expectant. "Did you know about this, my love?" he asked, half amused, half suspicious, his words slurring faintly as he spoke. "Is that why you were plying me with drinks all dinner? And here, all this time, I thought you just wanted to get _feisty_ later on, maybe do something we've never done before. Something utterly _shameful_." Then, giving a soft, tired grunt of a chuckle, he leaned over to her, burying his face in the side of her neck and closing his eyes as he nestled his head into the curve of her shoulder. "Nothing is shameful with you," he told her. "You could've just asked, you know. I'd be willing to do anything you wanted me to. Anything for you."

"Alistair," Sofia returned, gently, attempting to get him back on track, but to no avail.

"Unless, do—do you like me when I'm drunk?" Alistair asked, sitting up again suddenly and looking at her with interest. "I don't know if _I_ like me when I'm drunk. Maybe I do… I don't know. I could get used to it… maybe. What if I were drunk all the time, would you like me then?"

"Probably not," Sofia told him, honestly. "I'm having a hard enough time getting you to pay attention _now_, let alone if you were like this all the time."

"I'm paying attention to _you_," Alistair told her, helpfully. "What could be more important than that?"

"Alistair," Sofia sighed, softly, indicating across the table towards where Fiona still sat, patient as ever. "We're wasting Grand Enchanter Fiona's time. She came here specifically to talk to you."

"Yes, mother," Alistair returned, jokingly, giving a soft, fond snort of a chuckle in return. Then, turning his attention towards Fiona again, he pointed towards Sofia, more serious now. "She's not really my mother," he told her, making sure she knew. "She's my wife. My mother, she's… she was a scullery maid in the king's castle, my father—King Maric's castle. Died riiiight after I was born, though, so I got—I was raised by Arl Eamon instead, for a short while."

"Is that what they told you happened?" Fiona asked, keeping a straight face, careful not to betray any emotion at the story. "That your mother died in childbirth?"

"Well… yes," Alistair answered, sounding a bit confused. "That's what happened, so that's what they told me happened. It's—it's all very straightforward, really, when you think about it."

"So… you never got to know her, then?" Fiona asked, intently. "The scullery maid, the one they told you was your mother?"

"No… no," Alistair returned, taking in a deep breath as he shook his head. "I never got to meet my mother. But Eamon, he more than made up for it. He raised me quite well, if I say so myself, for as long as that lasted. Not terribly long, but… he was good to me, regardless."

"He is a good man, Eamon Guerrin," Fiona said, gently, giving a soft bob of her head.

"A _very_ good man," Alistair agreed, nodding in return. "A very good man indeed. Taught me everything I know and then some. He—he raised me, did you know? Did I tell you that? Up until the age of ten, when his wife had me sent away to the Chantry." He hesitated, thoughtful, before suddenly seeming to perk up again. "And ten years after that, I became a Grey Warden!" he said, beaming his lopsided smile again. "Took the oath, met my wife… and became king. And ten years after that, now, here we are. Still king, still married to my beautiful wife, and now a father. Mad world. But Arl Eamon, he is a very… very good man."

"You are a father?" Fiona asked, her breath almost seeming to catch tellingly in her throat before she quickly amended herself, returning to the blank, professional expression of before. "I had not heard, your Majesty. It seems news does not travel as well as it used to."

"Not… necessarily," Sofia admitted, gently, shaking her head as Alistair reached over to take one of her tiny hands in his much larger one. "We made the decision to keep it a secret until the end of the war. We didn't want people trying to hurt our little one to try to gain a foothold against Ferelden. Only a select few people know we even have a child. We tried to keep it as small a number as possible… my tailor, our midwife, our _au pair_, Bann Teagan—"

"And now you," Alistair added, brightly. "I trust you won't tell anyone about it. Or, anyone who shouldn't… who doesn't already know. Or that… anyone who should be—who should know. About the child."

"How old is this… child?" Fiona asked, careful to be as delicate as possible when asking about the child she was not entirely sure she was even supposed to know about. Alistair blurting it out so openly seemed to have shaken Sofia a bit, though she was doing a good job of not showing it. Her queenly poise was impeccable, likely an easy step from her warrior's resolve, but Fiona still did not want to do anything that might upset her, as little as she might be likely to admit to being upset.

"Two and a half," Alistair answered, openly. "Two years, six months, one week and three days. Four hours, twenty-nine minutes…"

"Alistair," Sofia scolded him, gently, though she could barely hide the soft little smile that had curved her rosy lips. Turning her attention back to Fiona, she gave a tired little sigh. "She's two and a half," she told her. "Terrible twos. We finally gave up trying to keep her cooped up in secret and have started letting her run and play in common clothes around the castle under the watch of her au pair. That way, if people see her, they think she's simply one of the kitchen maids' children."

"Nobody even suspects she's a princess," Alistair added, proudly. "Learned that trick from her father."

"Yes," Fiona agreed, sadly. "So I've heard. And… what is this darling little princess' name…?"

"Maesie," Alistair answered, happily. "Short for Maeseline. Maeseline Seraphine Theirin."

"That's… quite a mouthful," Fiona commented, raising her brows.

"Thankfully for her, she only has to remember Maesie until she gets old enough to remember the rest," Alistair assured her. "We don't expect her to remember her full name just yet. Sometimes even _I_ have a hard time remembering it."

"That's not true," Sofia added, smiling gently. "You remember everything when it comes to her."

"Well, I'm her father," Alistair told her, turning to look at her, fondly. "That's my job. Being king is only a formality. Taking care of my daughter comes first, and looking after the kingdom is second." He smiled at her, dotingly, and then, leaning over, he pressed a quick kiss to her rosy lips, swiftly retreating again as soon as he had done it and grinning to himself like a cat who had stolen a fish straight from the bowl. Then, turning his attention back to Fiona, he cleared his throat, attempting to clear the lingering guilty grin from his expression as he gave her his full, undivided attention for the first time since sitting down at the table. "I'm sorry," he told her, pulling his hand away from his wife's to fold both hands on the table in front of him, sounding oddly stiff as he tried his hardest to appear as professional as possible. "You wanted to discuss something, Grand Enchanter?"

"I did," Fiona agreed, patiently. She paused, hesitating, considering him, unsure how to proceed from here. Then, reaching forward, she slid her thin, pale hands around Alistair's rough-hewn, much larger ones, enveloping them warmly as she ran the pad of her thumb fondly across the backs of his knuckles. Alistair faltered at the motion, his brow furrowing faintly as he looked down at his hands in hers, before looking up at her again, clearly trying hard to puzzle out what she was doing.

"Are we holding hands?" he asked, confusedly. "I'm not adverse to hand-holding, but—would you like to hold my wife's hand instead?" Here, he indicated with his head towards Sofia, who had folded her small hands in front of her on the table as well, watching the two of them patiently. "I feel she's likely much more into the whole… healing by touch thing," he added. "It's just that, I don't know you that well, and I generally save hand-holding for when I'm much more familiar, if you know what I mean." Having said this, he hesitated, waiting for a response, but when one did not come immediately, he made a face, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his knee-jerk reaction. "Do you understand?" he asked, trying not to visibly wince. "It's not that I dislike you, I like you well enough, you're a good, principled woman, it's just that—"

"Alistair," Fiona cut him off, causing him to all but swallow his last unspoken words. "There's something I need to tell you. It's something very important, so listen to me carefully." Having said this, she paused, her thinning brows furrowing solemnly as she took in a soft, steadying breath.

Seizing the opportunity to speak again, Alistair raised his brows in return, earnest, if still a bit confused by what Fiona was taking so long to say. "I can't promise how careful I'll be," he admitted to her, fairly. "I'm not sure I'll remember very much of anything you tell me at the moment. Probably not at all come morning. You'll likely have to tell me again. Not—not that I would mind, I wouldn't mind listening again, I'm very good at listening, but, just so you know—"

"Alistair," Fiona cut him off again, letting out her breath in a gentle, patient sigh. "Listen to me. Just. Listen." Gripping his hands a bit tighter in hers, she anxiously wet her lips, staring at him, watching him, taking him in in his entirety. He was a handsome man, tall and sturdy like his father, and despite his hard upbringing and current dysfunctional state, the man that sat before her looked every inch a king. Taking in another deep, readying breath, her breathing staggered momentarily as she prepared to finally tell him what she had come all this way to say. "Thirty-one years ago, I was serving with the Wardens when we went on an expedition into the Deep Roads to rescue our leader, Warden Genevieve's, brother, Bregan," she began. "He had been captured by darkspawn and was being held near the Ortan Thaig, but since none of us had ever been that way, we recruited the help of King Maric Theirin, your father, to guide us. Our goal was to confront and to kill the Architect…"

Here, she paused, turning her attention towards Sofia. "I believe you are familiar with that particular person," she told her. "If he can even be called that." Frowning again, Fiona offered Sofia a look of almost pity, before turning her attention back towards Alistair once more and taking in another deep, steadying breath. "It… was a horrific experience," she told him. "But Maric and I, we grew quite close on that expedition, and I…" She hesitated, her words catching in her throat, and wet her dry lips again, her thin hands clutching faintly tighter to Alistair's as she struggled to go on. "I became… pregnant," she told him, forcing herself to continue, her voice breaking weakly as she spoke. "With… Maric's child. I did not tell him at the time because I thought it would be best if he did not know, but I… I could not take care of a child. I had so many duties to attend to, magical duties, and I… as much as I loved the child, I…"

Fiona stopped again, choked by a lump that had risen in her throat, her breathing shuddering as she gritted her teeth, forcing back the tears that threatened to show in her eyes. "I could not bear to make him live the life of a half-elf child," she told him, her voice breaking again, softly. "Not when my elven heritage had brought me nothing but pain and suffering. I did not want my child to have to go through what I went through."

"So, wait," Alistair said, making a face, confused. "I have another brother somewhere? A half-elf brother?"

"No," Fiona told him, gently, shaking her head. "Listen to me, Alistair. I did not want my child to be brought up as a half-elf, suffering the way I had suffered, so I brought the child to Maric, and I told him… I told him to tell the child his mother had died in childbirth. That way he would never have to know the truth about where he came from, or his heritage. I had to do it, to save his life."

Another long pause fell on the room as Alistair stared at Fiona, confused, trying to piece together what she was telling him. He frowned, faintly, his expression growing slowly graver the longer he thought about what she had said, until finally, he wet his lips, taking in a long, thin breath. "Are you saying… you're… my mother?" he asked, sounding half bewildered, half oddly apprehensive, as if he suspected she were making this up just to garner his reaction. Then, giving a sharp, unattractive snort of laughter, he shook his head, leaning back in his chair as he looked over at his wife again, bitterly amused. "That—that can't be right," he said. "I'm not an elf. I'm too well endowed! It's just not—it's not possible. I'm not… there's nothing to show…!"

"You _are_," Fiona insisted, giving his hands a little, forceful pull, causing him to look her way again. "You were lucky. Some half-elf children look more elven than others, but you, you were perfect. I knew it from the moment you were born. You looked almost entirely human, so much so that I knew you could easily pass for a human child." Her stubborn frown deepened, her stalwart lip giving a gentle quiver as a single tear rolled down her cheek, but she could not bring herself to let go of Alistair's hands to wipe it away. "I wanted to give you the life I could never have," she told him, trying with little success to keep her voice from shaking. "That's the only reason I didn't raise you myself. I'm sorry for being too much of a coward to come forward and tell you all these years, but I… everything I did, I did for you. I did it for your own good. And I simply did not see the point in hurting you further by telling you the truth."

"So why tell me now?" Alistair insisted, leaning forward towards her and frowning in return. "And wh—when I'm like… this? What good does it do? I'm probably not even going to remember you told me this tomorrow morning."

"I know," Fiona told him, sombrely. "I did not want to hurt you, but at the same time… I could not keep it a secret any longer. It was hurting me too much not to tell you." Taking another thin, deep breath, she turned her gaze towards Sofia now, who looked up at her in polite, almost detached interest. "That is why I asked your wife to make sure you were… compliant, enough, I suppose, to hear it," Fiona added, matter-of-factly. "To serve both our purposes. You could continue to live your life happily, without ever having to know the hurtful truth, and I… I would no longer have to carry this burden that grows heavier with every passing year."

"You _knew_," Alistair insisted, pulling his hands from Fiona's to look over at his wife, accusatory. "You—you got me dr… drunk _on purpose?_"

"She asked me to," Sofia returned, calmly, barely moving to turn her attention up towards him.

Alistair groaned, making a face, before turning away from her again and folding his arms on the tabletop, laying his head down in them before moving to cover his head with his hands. "I'm going to be sick," he muttered. "You can't… you can't just… _tell_ me something like that, and then…" He trailed off, his tall, bent form giving an inadvertent jolt as a muted, nauseating sound escaped him that was unclear if it was a hiccup or a burp. Sofia did not even flinch, instead reaching over a hand to rub his back reassuringly, hoping to help him feel better. "Shouldn't have drunk so much," Alistair mumbled, regretfully. "I need to lie down for a while… get some sleep… can we… let's just do this more in the morning, all right? I can't do this right now. I can't… don't tell me this right now. Maybe… maybe later."

"I should take my leave," Fiona said, quickly wiping the now-dry tear from her cheek as she pushed her chair out from the table, getting to her feet. Turning her attention to Sofia again, she bit her lip, gently, before taking another small, sharp breath. "Thank you… your Majesty," she told her, causing Sofia to look up at her, attentive. "For this opportunity. I… I don't know that I would have had the courage to do this otherwise, and it means… so much, to me."

"Hm," Sofia returned, quietly, continuing to rub Alistair's back, soothing him.

Fiona nodded, realizing this was as much of an answer as she was going to get, and turned, clasping her hands reflectively in front of her as she made her way towards the door at the far end of the kitchenry nook. As soon as the door had closed behind her, a heavy, silent, pregnant pause settled on the room, unbroken by anything but the soft, distracted crackling of the fire in the inglenook. Then, sitting up straight in his chair again, Alistair cleared his throat, gently, all hint of hindered mannerism gone, almost as if it had never been there at all. His expression was distant, hard to read as he turned to look in the direction the Grand Enchanter had disappeared in, and he took a deep breath as he stared at the door, silent for another moment longer. Then, his brow furrowing faintly into a grave, thoughtful expression, he turned to look at Sofia again, letting out his breath in a long, soft exhale.

"Thank you," he told her, quietly, almost too softly for her to hear.

Sofia paused a moment, thoughtful, but then, reaching out, she took one of his hands in both of hers, drawing it reassuringly into her lap. "I figured you would want to know," she told him, gently. "Whatever it was. It didn't feel right otherwise. Like I was deceiving you." Alistair nodded, solemnly, retrieving the hand she had taken and instead bringing it to her face, cupping it in his hand as he trailed the pad of his thumb softly across her rosy cheek. Sofia gave a soft, tired sigh, closing her eyes and nestling her face against the warmth of his palm. "I don't like keeping secrets from you," she told him. "I don't like others keeping secrets from you, either."

"I know," Alistair returned, frankly.

Sofia went quiet again, simply allowing him to continue stroking her face. Then, looking up at him again, she offered him a weak, hopeful half-smile. "You played your part quite well," she told him, jokingly.

Alistair hesitated, stopping for a moment in stroking her face, before finally giving a soft, uneasy, almost forced-sounding breath of a laugh. "Yes, well, I had some… dark times, while you were away conscripting Wardens to the cause," he admitted, quietly, lowering his gaze. "I'd prefer not to talk about it now. I'm not proud of that time in my life." Another silence fell between them, this one more uncomfortable than the last, the crackling fireplace in the background only seeming to serve to exacerbate the pause. Then, finally, Alistair lifted his gaze again, his expression solemn as he regarded his wife. "I wouldn't have guessed it, honestly," he told her. "If she hadn't told me. …Fiona, that is. It never even would have occurred to me." He hesitated again, thinking about it some more, before his brow suddenly furrowed deeper, this time into a faint, pensive, self-critical frown.

"I was… so content," he told her, sounding almost disgusted. "So _complacent_ in the idea that my mother was common, and had simply… died…. It-it made sense for me, you know, it made _sense_ for why I was… why she…" He went silent again, this time choking on his words, pursing his lips into a hard line to stifle back the lump that was threatening to rise in his throat as his hand curled into a hard, almost unintentional fist on the table. He stared fixedly at a point on the ground, his brow furrowing into a hard, dark line, but then, suddenly seeming to remember who he was with, he looked up at his wife again, pausing for a telling moment, before giving a soft, forced breath of a humourless laugh. "Almost would have preferred to have actually been drunk," he told her, his bitterness evident even through his attempt at humour. "Might have been easier to swallow that way."

Sofia did not smile at the forcibly lighthearted comment. Instead, she reached forward, taking hold of the hand on the table and making him uncurl his fist a bit so she could slide her fingers inside. "Are you all right?" she asked, gently.

Alistair paused again, the false smile fading slowly from his face as he watched her earnest expression. "Not really," he finally told her, honestly. He hesitated, seeming unsure what to do with himself, before attempting to offer her another forced, hapless smile, but it did not take long for it to fall away again, his expression quickly crumbling as he bent over, dropping his face into his hands as a gasping sob wracked his tall body. "Why did she tell me?" he sobbed, unable to hold it back any longer. "Why _didn't_ she tell me? Why didn't _anybody_ tell me? My mother, my mother was alive this whole time, and I…" Looking up at Sofia again, he held out his hands in front of him, pleading, miserable, sniffling as another pair of tears skated down his flushed cheeks. "How could I have never figured it out?" he insisted. "I'm such a fool, I'm—I'm such a _fool_—"

"Shh," Sofia cooed, softly, reaching forward towards him and taking his hands in hers to give them a reassuring squeeze. "You're not a fool. Don't ever think that." Letting go of his hands, she pulled him in towards her, coaxing his head down to her shoulder, running her slender fingers through his hair as her other hand passed soothingly over his broad back. In return, Alistair wrapped his arms around her tiny form, pulling her closer, into his lap, needing her, holding her as near to himself as he could, not wanting to let go.

"I love you," he breathed, burying his face in her neck as she ran her fingers gently through his hair.

"I love you, too," she assured him, quietly, pressing a kiss to the side of his ear.


End file.
